Fallen From Grace
by Angeleyez
Summary: She has no grace. He wants to save her, but no one’s perfect. Lit. Future. Complete.


**Title**: Fallen From Grace

**Author**: Angeleyez

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. Not even that italicized quote at the beginning. Buffy fans will recognize it.

**Summary**: She has no grace. He wants to save her, but no one's perfect. Lit/Future/Complete

_Every night I save you_.

I

He counts the bruises across her back. In the darkness of his bedroom, they look like splotches of ink, careless spills across her skin. She winces in her sleep as he presses his fingertips against the one beneath her left shoulder, and traces a silent _J_. The letter burns dimly into a white imprint, before it returns to its black and purple shade of love.

His hand falls further to the perfect circle to the right of her hip. In the middle lies the deep shape of a lock, a thin line of red running down the center. Across the palm of her left hand is a long, silvery scar from where the doorjamb ripped her open. He pictures her cowering, the doorknob pressed into her back, her skin tearing against the wood.

The alarm is shrill and sudden. Her sleepy sigh is barely audible beneath the noise as she switches it off and gets up. Her skin is pale in the dark; she reminds him of the living dead, a tragic Snow White. Her hair is dyed black from the absence of light, and her lips are chapped from a nervous habit; the color of dried blood. He licks his lips and he can taste it; fresh, coppery, sweet.

She dresses and sits on the bed to put on her shoes. He wraps an arm around her stomach and pulls her against him. Kissing her neck, he pretends that she is off to work, her absence only temporary. Soon enough she will return and they can go back to bed together.

"Stop." Her voice is passive and strangely small. "Jess, your cologne." She swallows. "It'll get all over my shirt."

It doesn't make a difference. As soon as she gets home, she throws her clothes into the wash and disappears into the shower, where he becomes lost among the steam and lily scented soap. There she scrubs until her skin is raw and throbbing underneath the showerhead, and every last trace of him is gone.

He hates that these encounters can be erased so easily. These small windows of time are special, like scenes removed from the rest of his life; something separate and too different to fit properly with everything else. Yet as soon as she leaves, it becomes a made-up story; a melodrama written inside his head.

"I don't want you to go," he mumbles, lips pressed against the corner of her jaw. He doesn't want their time together turned into wisps of smoke. He doesn't want her to forget.

"I don't want to go," she echoes in a hollow voice. She shifts in his arms so she can look him in the eye, and he sees the unasked question.

He can do it. He feels the hope radiating off her skin as she waits in an eternal pause. _He can do this_. With one word, he can wrap her up inside the cocoon of his bed, and keep her nestled safely beside him. He can easily imagine her becoming a permanent fixture in his life; her toothbrush on his sink, her shampoo left in his shower. The vision of her dirty clothes littering the floor is as tangible as the warmth of her mouth when she kisses him goodbye. All it would take is one gesture, one _stay_.

"You should get going," he whispers. "Your husband will be home soon."

She stares at the ground, bare hardwood floors, inch thick gouges left by past tenants. Dejectedly she nods and stands up, leaving him alone in bed, the sheet wrapped tightly around his lower half. She doesn't look back.

Once the door shuts, he covers his face with her pillow and contemplates suffocation, death by her perfume.

II

Monday through Friday, Jess works at an academic library whose original name is unknown. It's a small building of crumbling brick and a rusted moss stone plaque that proudly proves its existence before the Civil War. After a fire in the late nineteenth century that destroyed most of its records and the huge sign that welcomed all, its original name began to wane. Its sign was never replaced and slowly its name was pushed out of everyday conversation. Eventually the library became referred to as 'West's' or 'Briar's' depending on the current manager. Jess likes it this way. Without a concrete name, the place is like a free-floating body. Sometimes he runs his hands along the walls, expecting to fall through.

He works in the basement-turned-office where he catalogues new arrivals. The current manager of the library has a grudge against technology, calling it the "devil's invention" whenever it's brought up. The elderly man prefers the old-fashioned way of running a library, including the use of a typewriter to make up filing cards. His out-of-date beliefs extend to money too; he thinks everything is overpriced. The library is in a constant state of disrepair as the man refuses to cough up any extra cash. In the basement-turned-office, Jess sits under a dying forty-watt bulb, so he can squint and type and pretend that this is the place dreams are made of.

Work is slow. In the four years of his employment, there has never been a backup of new arrivals, so there has never been the need to hire someone else. He sits alone behind the typewriter day after day, flipping through pages of books that catch his interest, looking up useless facts on the Black-backed Jackal or the Barking Tree Frog. He knows the weight of the human heart, the average size of eucalyptus leaves, and the reason lawn darts are illegal in Canada.

He thinks a lot as he catalogues. Especially on the days when he finishes his work in the first few hours, but lingers downstairs so he'll be paid for a full day. He thinks of raking yards and fixing appliances; mostly projects that require the use of his hands. He doesn't do odd jobs anymore. He misses them, just a little bit.

Sometimes he thinks of grocery lists. He imagines heading to the store one night after work, but on his way in, he runs into _her_ on her way out. He always has his list in hand, so he can show her and say: See? I have reasons to be here too. She always smiles at him – it's small but she shows her teeth – and she always says yes when he invites her to get a cup of coffee, the crumpled list forgotten.

Other times, they meet outside, on the busy city street. He likes running into her in the middle of the crosswalk, and they freeze as the light turns green and the 'No Walking' warning flashes. She always smiles in these fantasies, her hand outstretched, ready to say yes.

He knows her hair is longer than from the last time he saw her, back at Yale. It's grown past her shoulders, although she wears it up when she gives her reports on TV. In the paper, where he outlines her byline with an old, dried out highlighter, a small photo is often featured; her hair long and dark; classic in black and white. He thinks she's still beautiful, even with the diamond on her finger.

One day, when he takes a long lunch break, a news van pulls up outside the bank across the street. She jumps out, a microphone in hand, and hurries to stand center stage. Other newscasters arrive, but his eyes stay on her as she fixes her hair, the cameraman signaling they are about to go live. Jess touches the glass window that separates them, smearing his prints among those long gone. He gets up without paying and crosses the street to watch with the rest of the crowd.

Shots ring out a moment later from a dangerous outburst inside. Rory barely flinches as she continues to speak, casting sideways glances over her shoulder. She looks strong and vibrant, and he aches to touch her – just once, he swears – so he can remember what it feels like to belong.

Crisis is averted and there are no casualties. An overweight police officer with too much confidence fingers his empty gun holster and loudly announces that the show is over. The crowd shuffles away, disappointed at the lack of bloodshed.

Jess walks toward the news van, and watches the cameraman put the equipment away. Rory is on her cell phone, frowning as she listens. She looks smaller now, all of the power gone. He wonders if it's a trick of the light, or the lack of a camera. When she hangs up, he approaches from behind and touches her shoulder, brushing against a silky piece of hair. He has to restrain himself from reaching out again.

She is surprised. Her eyes widen, but the corners of her mouth turn upward, and it's this beautiful half-smile. He tells her she did an amazing job. He goes on and says silly, meaningless things, congratulating her on dreams fulfilled, plans kept.

She asks him out for coffee, her voice as soft as a dream.

III

They never meet outside of his apartment. She comes over when she can, and sometimes they have dinner, and sometimes they just talk. They sit on his old, beat-up sofa purchased from a yard sale two years ago. It has holes on both sides of the cushions and a missing spring. Rory makes him promise never to buy a new one. He agrees just because it's her.

She is very quiet even when they're supposed to be having a conversation, and he misses the way she used to ramble; he misses the sound of her voice. He thinks that she must be tired by the end of the day, her words all used up on TV.

Two months into their friendship, she comes over late, shaking and crazy and out of breath.

"I can't do this anymore," she announces, standing in the middle of his living room.

She is fresh from some dinner party, hair piled on top of her head, sleek dress hugging her body. She tugs at the waist of her coat, trying to cover herself up. Her hands shake and he asks her what's wrong.

"I have no grace!" She buries her face in her hands. He stands in front of her stupidly, his hands useless at his sides.

"He says I'm gauche. I slouch, I – I don't smile enough," she sniffles, jabbing at her tears, "I forget names." She tears the bobby pins from her updo, and wild curls fall to her shoulders. She rubs her eyes, smudging her mascara.

"He says he didn't marry me for this. He says I should be better. That my last name is _Gilmore_ and that means I shouldn't be so awkward!" She stomps her foot and again tugs at her coat, ready to rip if off. "I was raised in a shed, Jess! I wasn't raised for – for _this_." She chokes and launches into a coughing fit, but he remains motionless.

The coughing subsides and she stares at the ground. "I mess up everything he tries to do."

He puts his hand on her shoulder and twirls a curl around his finger. Her eyes shine as she watches his awkward movements. He wants to comfort her, but he doesn't know how.

"Jess…"

Her lips are rough under his thumb, but her cheeks are as soft as he imagined. He leans down, his mouth a breath away from hers.

"Jess, don't." She shivers, but he doesn't back away. "Please, Jess." Her voice cracks and his heart breaks. "Please."

When he finally kisses her, he expects her to pull away. Slap him. Run out of his apartment. Instead, her knees buckle and she falls into him, a tumble of thin fabric and silky curls dipped in tears.

Her mouth is warm; her tongue is smooth. She is dozens of sensations, flashes of soft, warmth, fire. She is everything he expected; everything fantasy he has had; every wish come true.

Her coat slips to the ground and he grasps the zipper of her gown. She reaches behind her back and covers his hand with her own. Together they unzip the dress, and it slithers down her body until it is only a mess of cloth at her feet.

He takes a step back to look at her. Bile rises in his throat as he surveys the cuts and bruises across her body. They range in color – blue purple brown yellow – like a decaying rainbow spreading across her arms and legs. He meets her eyes but there is nothing: no light, or need, or life. He can't think of a word, so he kisses her again, trying to squeeze some kind of hope into her.

When they slip into bed, he lets her be on top, so her body hurts less.

IV

Sometimes when she kisses him goodbye, he holds on, refusing to let her go. Not until she agrees to stay – stay for _good_ – and they lay back down together. Other times, he breaks into her house in the middle of the night and wakes her from a deep sleep, his voice hushed to keep from waking her husband. He pulls her out of bed and silently helps her pack, and they drive off into the night, finally free.

He beats up her husband. Kills her husband. He swoops in during a broadcast and rescues her on live TV, so everyone can finally see he is the good guy. He asks her to stay. He tells her he loves her. He holds her hand and promises to protect her and she foolishly believes him.

Every night that he is without her, he saves her in a different way. She is always beautiful and grateful and warm in his arms. The longer she stays with him, the happier she becomes. Color returns to her cheeks. She puts on weight. The scar fades.

Whenever she comes over with a new bruise, he gives her an icepack and watches as she nurses the wound, weak and helpless in the middle of his bed. She's so quiet about the hurt, never offering up information or begging for his help. She takes what she can get. Never asks for more.

One early Thursday morning she breaks the silence by banging on his apartment door, begging him to open up.

She has a black eye. The sight is so startling that he doesn't believe it is her; there is no way. He is used to the hidden bruises, the bottom of a scrape revealed when her shirt rode up. But never before has her face been touched. He never thought her husband would do that: they have to keep up appearances.

She is sobbing as he sits her on the bed with the promise to return with ice. When he comes back, she has wedged herself in the small space between his nightstand table and mattress. She hides her face and warns him to stay away from her. She bites her fist as she kicks off her heels; he thinks she's breaking apart.

"I have to go on in a half hour," she cries. "I can't go on like this!" She draws her knees to her chest and hides her face and he doesn't know what to do.

"Rory," he tries. "Hey, come on. Rory."

"How could he do this today?" she sobs. "He knew I was doing the news! He knew!" And she freezes. She looks up and meets Jess's eyes, and she crumbles all over again. "Oh my god."

Jess sinks to the floor, the ice pack in his lap.

"I can't believe…" She trails off, at a loss. She isn't upset about the abuse, but the inconvenience. She has become so inured to the injuries that it is an accepted part of her life. She doesn't even try to fight anymore. "I can't – "

He wants to be the one to save her. The words are always on the tip of his tongue; that burst of strength just beneath the surface, ready to fly out and save the day.

But he doesn't. He holds back. He knows that if they were to be together again, it would be a disaster. He is terrible for her, and she can't change that with sweet words and the promise that she believes in him. They will end again, only worse this time, because he'll never be delivered another chance. It'll be done for good.

He likes how it is now. He likes how she clings to him when he lets her in, how her eyes light up when she sees him, how her body sags as she is filled with the greatest relief. He likes being her escape, the made-up hero, because being a real hero is too much work. He likes that no matter what he does, he will never be as bad as her husband.

"Jess." She is shaking as she reaches out to him. He crawls forward and pulls her onto his lap.

And for the first time in his life, he is the better man.

V

On the way home from work one Friday, he stops at the grocery store to buy ingredients for dinner. He has something special planned and he wants it to be good. He shops quickly, not bothering with a cart. When he reaches the cashier, he dumps the products onto the conveyor belt, expelling a breath of impatient air.

The woman rings him up quickly. She is older and blonde; ringlets of the straw color falling along her shoulders. Jess keeps his eyes glued to her hands, noticing the thin wedding band on her finger. Products fly by, their prices in red on screen.

As he grabs his bags to leave, the woman tells him to have a nice day in a husky smoker's voice. He says nothing back.

It isn't until he is halfway home that he realizes his difficulty with words. It hits him suddenly like a blossoming thought that has finally broken the surface. Besides Rory, he has not had a real conversation in three years.

It's always the same when he shops. A mumbled hello is an accepted pleasantry; he says it back. But if the person tries to go further with a polite 'how are you' or 'can I help you', Jess averts his eyes and purses his lips, turning a deaf ear to whomever. Even his boss refrains from addressing him. Requests are written on post-it notes, stuck to Jess's typewriter. It's an indirect means of communication but the only kind that works.

When Jess comes home, he finds Rory waiting in the hall, an overnight bag in hand. She says hello, and he returns it. As they head inside, she asks him about work and he tells her in a low voice about his day. It's easier with her, he thinks. She knows what to expect, and she's never disappointed.

She dumps her bag out on his bed. Toiletries, books, and slippers all fall out in a tangle of clothes. Her husband is out of town on business, and she has the weekend free. The entire weekend. With him.

He makes Chicken Cordon Bleu for dinner, and prepares a leafy salad drowned in her favorite dressing. He brings out two bottles of wine and promises they'll both get drunk until they're giggling and stumbling around his apartment.

She thinks this is the best idea he has had in a long time.

On Saturday morning, she stands on his bed, clad in one of his shirts. He smiles up at her, not minding the disturbance.

"You're pretty," she tells him. "But your apartment is a mess."

"Well, clean it."

"Fine," she concedes. "I will."

Surprised, he watches her jump down and head into kitchen. He hears running water and the clatter of dishes. He suppresses a laugh.

A few minutes later, the water is cut short and he listens to the pad of her feet down the hall. When it ends, he tenses, suddenly realizing where she has stopped.

"Hey, Rory!"

As he kicks off the sheets, he hears a crash. He finds Rory on the floor in front of the open closet. Articles are scattered all over the rug, spilled from the overturned box by her feet. She picks up a nearby article and studies it, her expression unreadable. She picks up another and another until she has a huge pile in her lap, and tears are sliding down her face.

"Some of these articles are from three years ago," she whispers. "You – you've been following my work."

"I like the way you write." He shrugs, not knowing what else to say. "You're…amazing."

She covers her mouth as her brow furrows, her eyes filling with more tears. He rubs the back of his neck, awkward in the doorway. She holds out her hand and he finally moves, pulling her up. She parts her lips with every intention of speaking, but she ends up shaking her head.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she whispers that she loves him. He closes his eyes and says nothing back.

When the time comes for her to leave the next day, he is the one clinging to her in bed, face buried in her hair. He doesn't ask her to stay or to wait. He simply holds her, as if that is enough to keep her.

He wants so badly to keep her. He has to bite his tongue to keep from asking.

The next day, she doesn't call, and he goes to bed early. The day after, he works late and fears he missed her. Two more days pass in that stony silence he used to know as everyday life.

On the fifth day of her absence, the call comes in the early afternoon. It's Luke, a man Jess hasn't spoken with in five years.

"Luke? I didn't know you knew the number."

"Yeah, we really don't talk much anymore, huh?" The words sound breezy as if Luke is simply going through the motions. "Listen, I know you haven't seen Rory in years, but I just thought you should know."

It starts as a small splinter of pain in the back of his head. It spreads steadily, multiplying by the second. "Know what?"

"She's dead, Jess. She – she fell down the stairs. Broke her neck."

VI

He knows now what death feels like. It slithers through the body and slows the reactions, the heart rate, the blood flow. Eventually it all stops together, one simultaneous pause and he breathes his last.

He knows now what living after feels like. The forced, shallow breath as he attempts to suck air back into his lungs. The artificial beat of his heart as his vision slowly returns in pieces, color after color falling into place. Pain is like guilt, thick and encompassing. His head is too heavy to lift.

The television plays on in front of him. He hears her pretty voice as they replay old clips of outings with her husband; charity events and dinner parties and gala openings. They display her picture in the upper right corner of the screen as the news anchors gravely discuss her terrible death and its repercussions.

Her husband – so together, so suave – falls apart on screen. Jess regards him with caustic hate and the bright, technicolor fantasy of blood on the TV screen. Jess wants to reach inside and pluck the son-of-a-bitch out.

It's a lie. There are no accidents, not where Rory is concerned. But the man goes on with a forlorn gaze and mumbled words as he promises that he will get through this, that he will be alright, and he smiles for the cameras because it's an election year.

Her five-year career is reduced to a thirty-second clip. She isn't Rory Gilmore, reporter. Rory Gilmore, staff writer for the Times. She is the wife. She is the second thought; the one who stands by her husband, the elegant figure in the background.

It makes him fucking sick.

He throws the remote at the closed window, and the glass shatters, landing somewhere outside on the sidewalk. He lets out a frustrated yell, about to take his TV and repeat the process, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Spinning around, he finds Rory kneeling on his bed, looking ethereal in a flimsy white nightgown.

"What's the matter?" she asks. "You look blue."

He rises slowly, startled when she reaches out and cups his cheek. "Sad boy," she says. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He peels her hand away and kisses her palm, finding no scar to stop his lips. When he surveys her body, her finds her flawless; pale and perfect just as he wants her.

It's another chance. The one he didn't think he'd get. It doesn't have to be too late. He doesn't have to fail her.

"I want you to stay." Jess takes a deep, shuddering breath, his hand loose on her hip. "Here. With me."

She smiles and it's beautiful. "I'm not going anywhere." He rests his head on her shoulder, and she ruffles his hair, her fingers nimble, her caress soft. He can still save her. "I promise."


End file.
